Sorry this chapter has taken a while to appear - I do have excuses. Firstly, this chapter has been truly harrowing to write, and I rewrote it at least three times before I was halfway happy with it, and then my beta was away, and when she got back my computer crashed just as I was about to send it to her, and then I had to go away before I could get it fixed, and then I had to catch up with everything I couldn’t do while I was away...

Yes, it was horrible, but finally this chapter’s here, and to make up for the long wait this one is the longest yet, over five thousand words and almost nine pages long! Actually, is that a good thing?

March, 3019

Denethor sat in his chambers before a low fire, drumming his fingers thoughtfully against the heavy stone cup in his hand. After a moment he roused himself and dismissed the weary man standing before him. “Go now, rest while you may, for soon you will again be needed.” He raised his voice a little, and addressed the servant at the door. “Send in the captains, then take this man to the guardhouse and provide him with food and drink.”

The servant bowed and left the room, as did the messenger, and for a while the steward was left alone. He rose wearily from his chair and crossed to the window. It was not yet noon, yet he had been up before dawn overseeing the preparations for war, and his head was starting to ache. There was so much to do: scouts to see and messages to be sent; the defenses had to be painstakingly checked and gone over; the men must be organized; and between them all he had to fit in constant meetings with his captains.

The women and children were ordered to be out of the city by noon, and on the southern roads the last of the long procession was trailing across the Pelennor. The beacons had been lit at dawn, and the Red Arrow sent to Rohan. And then Mithrandir had arrived with the halfling. Denethor sighed softly. He did not trust the wizard. Mithrandir would fight beside them, yet he fought for his own purposes, and had to be watched carefully. He was a valuable ally, but the last thing the steward wanted was to have to watch his back as well as his borders.

The door opened, and six tall warriors filed in. Very few of Gondor’s captains were left in the city; most were posted at the outer defenses, or sent on various missions for the steward. Several men had been sent to oversee the evacuation of the women and children, Faramir was still in Henneth Annûn, and there were many others who had fallen in the months of bitter skirmishing.

Denethor dropped back into his chair, and motioned them to sit. “A messenger has just arrived with news of the companies sent from the Outlands,” He began, getting straight to the point – this was war, there was no time for normal formalities. “He told me that they entered the Pelennor fields almost three hours ago.” It was true – the fact that he had seen all that the messenger had ‘informed’ him of in the palantír hours before the man arrived was of no consequence.

Dagolad, whose company guarded the gates, nodded. “Indeed, my lord, my men have seen the glint of their helms in the distance. It looks to be a goodly number.”

“Their numbers are no more than I expected, yet fewer than I hoped to see. I am told there are less than three thousand in total.”

Dagolad’s shoulders dropped and he sat back in his chair, his fists clenched. The other captains murmured a little, disappointment and anxiety clouding their features. After a moment Breghor, the youngest of the company, spoke up. “Is that all they could manage?” He asked hotly. “It cannot be a third of their forces. Do they not realize how dire is our need? Do they not grasp the threat Mordor is to us if we do not strike swift and hard?”

“Peace,” Denethor answered coolly. “They understand it well, for the threat comes also to their halls. They have sent all that they can spare, for it is not only at Minas Tirith the Dark Lord will direct his forces. For I have more news. In Umbar the Corsairs are gathering and are readying a fleet for war. Already some forty ships have gathered in the havens, and still more are gathering. The coasts must be guarded; they have sent all they can spare.”

The captains’ faces fell at the news, yet they did not question it. None knew from whence the steward gleaned his information, but throughout the years his source, whatever it was, had been proved trustworthy, and none there doubted that what he told them was correct.

“Forty ships?” Gamrod, a dark, grim man of Lamedon, and one of Denethor’s most experienced captains, asked, stroking his thick gray beard thoughtfully. “That is no small force. It seems to me that the people of the coast will find themselves regretting even the few men they have sent.” Gamrod did not usually say much; therefore when he spoke the men around him fell silent and listened attentively.

“Indeed, even had they every man they could muster I fear that such a force would be beyond their strength,” Húrin, Warden of the Keys, agreed, “Should the Corsairs attack our coasts our people will surely be defeated, and then we will be attacked from all sides. Indeed, this is a bitter blow.”

“It is,” Denethor said grimly, “yet it was not unforeseen, and the cities along the coasts are well fortified. If they are bravely defended they may stand, at least until relief arrives from the North. Our hope lies in Rohan.”

“Yet they too are threatened sorely,” Breghor said bitterly, “Indeed, it seems there are fell armies everywhere we look, and we are assailed on every side. Even with the forces of the Outlands our entire garrison only amounts to some ten thousand men, and it seems we will be faced with the combined armies of Mordor, Harad, Umbar and Rhûn. We will be outnumbered ten to one at least; even should the Rohirrim arrive in time. Is it not foolish to stand here when we do not have even a chance of victory?”

“What would you have us do? Would you have the men of Gondor fly in the face of the enemy and run to the mountains, there to be hunted and hewn down like animals? Better a thousand times that we should die on the walls of our city with our swords in our hands,” Dagolad rebuked him.

“And with us would die the last hope of Gondor, and all this land would be choked in shadow!” Breghor cried, rising to his feet. “I would have us gather the people and flee to the mountains as Turgon did of old, where we could remain hidden and grow in strength, until in years hence we could sally out and retake our lands. To remain here is death.”

Denethor raised his hand. “Sit, Breghor. Even Gondolin herself fell eventually; to flee to the mountains would only prolong our doom. And even should the armies gathered against us fill all the plains, Minas Tirith is strong and can long be held. We have men enough to man her high walls, and here we guard the entrance to the Outlands. While we stand here we are a shield for Gondor, so here we must stay.”

“Yet while we fight here the Corsairs will ravage our coasts.” Gamrod stated.

Denethor’s face darkened. “Indeed that may be, yet for the moment we can do nothing. We must trust that the fortifications at Tolfalas and Dol Amroth will hold them off, at least for a while.”

Gamrod nodded in acceptance. “So be it. Have you news of the enemy’s movements?”

“The orcs are still gathering at Minas Morgul, and at the Morannon they are preparing to march forth. Also the host of Haradrim is marching up the Harad Road, and may already be in Ithilien. It is almost certain that they will meet to cross the river at Osgiliath.”

Húrin’s eyes narrowed. “Why the Morannon?” he asked. “If the enemy plans to attack at Osgiliath surely it would be simpler to gather all his forces at Minas Morgul.”

Denethor nodded. “Indeed, I have considered this. Orcs too need sustenance, it may be that the stores in the city are not enough for the armies, or there is not room enough to house them all together. Or maybe he plans to send half his force to cross the river at Cair Andros.”

“Cutting us off from Rohan.” Breghor interjected.

“Exactly. Although Cair Andros is strongly defended, and if he attempts it he will find it is harder to destroy than he expects. Should he do so, however, he is dividing his strength.”

Breghor shrugged. “Even half his force is enough to destroy us.”

“So he thinks.”

“This has been debated many times over, and time now runs short,” Gamrod interrupted. “What is there still to be done?”

The steward listened as each of the captains gave their reports. The city was ready for war, after months of frantic work everything was finally prepared. When the armies of Sauron marched to destroy them, they would be ready to meet them.

They were bent over a large map, pinpointing the positions of the captains on the Rammas Echor, when the doors were thrown open and Mithrandir strode in. The door warden hovered anxiously behind him, throwing apologetic glances at the steward.

“Lord Denethor,” Mithrandir greeted him, striding across the room, and dropping into an empty chair, “Húrin, Gamrod. Forgive me for the lateness of my arrival – I was delayed.”

Denethor nodded in greeting and dismissed the doorwarden with a wave of his hand. He turned the map to face the wizard, and set his finger on the Havens of Umbar. “We have just had news from Umbar – the Corsairs are gathering a fleet, some forty ships and more coming.”

Mithrandir’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing, and the steward went on, “A large host of Haradrim, some twenty thousand, are on the move, by now they should be somewhere near Poros,” he moved his finger up to rest on the river crossing, “and marching swiftly they should reach Osgiliath by nightfall tomorrow. Also hosts of orcs have gathered in Minas Morgul, and more still on the plains of Udûn. There are orcs marching from the Morannon as we speak.”

Mithrandir nodded gravely. “The situation is dire.”

“Indeed. It has been for many years.” Denethor answered coolly.

The wizard glanced at him and Denethor held his gaze. The air between them was strained, and the captains glanced anxiously at each other. At last Húrin broke the heavy silence. “The Rammas Echor has been completed and is now manned, and there are captains placed at Cair Andros. All is in readiness.”

Denethor turned from the wizard and shot him a glare, but the tension in the room was lifted, and the captains once again felt safe to draw breath.

“What of the Corsairs?” Mithrandir asked, now addressing Húrin, “what fortifications are laid against them?”

Húrin hesitated and glanced at the steward, but Denethor signaled that he should speak, so after a moment he began. “Word has been sent to Belfalas and the sons of Imrahil, and their ships are preparing to meet them. They will be outnumbered, yet along the coast there are towers and catapults built for destroying attacking fleets It may be that the Corsairs attempt to sail up the Anduin to Lebennin and Palargrir, in which case our ships will probably make a stand on Tolfalas.”

Mithrandir nodded slowly. After a moment he sat up and glanced around the room. “Where is Faramir?” He asked, suddenly noticing his absence.

“My son has been at Henneth Annûn,” Denethor informed him, “By now he should be at Cair Andros.”

“With how many men?”

“Some five hundred.”

Mithrandir nodded again, and stared absently at the map before him. After a moment Dagolad rose to his feet. “My lord,” he addressed Denethor, “I have much to arrange before the arrival of the Southern troops. Is there anything more that needs my attention?”

“No, I think all has been said.” Denethor answered, fixing his eyes on Mithrandir. The wizard nodded. “Indeed, all seems prepared. You have done well. One more thing I have to tell; Saruman has been defeated and captured, Théoden has routed his enemies, and he will soon ride to your aid.”

The face of every man lightened, and smiles broke out on some. “Welcome tidings these are indeed, though not unforeseen,” the steward said, rising to his feet. “You may be dismissed. Have your men sharpen their swords and prepare their armor for battle.”

“Indeed, that has been done so often lately, I fear they will soon be wearing thin,” Dagolad said lightly.

“No matter; they will not have to last long anyway,” Breghor muttered, and escaped out the door. Dagolad followed him grimly, and even the usually taciturn Gamrod rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath as they filed out.

At last Mithrandir alone was left with the steward. “You see much, Lord Denethor,” the wizard commented. “Many wonder at the swiftness of your tidings.”

“It is only by constant watchfulness Gondor has stood so many years.” Denethor answered guardedly.

Mithrandir sighed, and cut straight to the point. “Indeed. Yet the palantíri are dangerous tools, and can quickly become the master. You know the danger, and by whom the Ithil-stone is held.”

“I know the dangers; I have grappled with them for many years. Yet danger is all around us these days, and should we try to flee from it, it would swiftly overtake us. Gondor stands today because her stewards have faced danger and subdued it.”

“Indeed, yet a wise man will not challenge that which is stronger than him, especially when the lives of others are at stake.”

Denethor lifted his head proudly, his gray eyes cold as ice. “I know what I face, Mithrandir. This is my city and my people, I know what is at stake here, and I know my strength.”

Mithrandir held his gaze for a moment. At last he looked away in frustration. Why did every glance at the Steward have to turn into a staring match? Curse the man’s pride! “Saruman was also for many years master of a Seeing Stone, and it was this that brought about his downfall,” the wizard said, trying a different tack. “You knew this, of course?”

Denethor gave a curt nod, his eyes narrowing warily.

“For many years he used it to his profit, but at last he looked too far and Sauron became aware of him, and eventually took control of the palantír and was able to master Saruman’s will and turn him to himself.”

“Indeed, I thought better of him,” Denethor said contemptuously. “Sauron’s will is strong, yet Saruman was of the Istari, renowned for their strength.”

Mithrandir’s eyes flashed. “Do not underestimate the strength of Sauron. He has subdued the great with his will alone.”

“I am in no danger of underestimating it, for I have wrestled with it many times of late,” Denethor answered coolly, and was gratified to see surprise flicker in the wizard’s eyes. “Did you think I was ignorant of his power? Did you expect me to fall under his will as did Saruman? No, the steward of Gondor is not foolish or weak, and Sauron has found me more difficult to break than he expected. For years he has grappled with my will, striving to take control of the palantír, yet he has failed. He has attempted to master me, yet I have wrenched free of him and directed my gaze where I will, though it has cost me much, and the Ithil-stone is most closely bound to mine.”

Mithrandir gazed at him in silence. The steward was truly a son of Númenor, tall and proud, the afternoon sunlight glinting off his mail, matching the piercing gray of his eyes. And his will was strong, stronger than the wizard had thought it, if what he said was true. That he, a man, however strong, should have defied Sauron for so long and remained unscathed was more than he expected. He stared into Denethor’s eyes for a moment, but they were guarded and he could read nothing. “Be on your guard,” he said at last, “Sauron is crafty, and strength not his only weapon. The palantíri cannot lie, but they can deceive. They are dangerous tools, and should not be used lightly. I will not attempt to dissuade you from using it, as I do not think you would heed me.”

Denethor smiled grimly. “I would not. I am the Steward of Gondor, I am capable of making my own decisions, and in this matter I deem I have more experience than even you, Mithrandir. As you have said, I am no fool; when I am a dotard I will die. And I am not dead yet. Now, if you will excuse me, I have much to see to.”

“As do I. Yet beware, Steward, least pride in your strength brings your fall.” Mithrandir rose, inclined his head in farewell, and strode purposefully from the room.

Denethor did have much to do, but he also had a lot to think on, and for a while he sat unmoving, staring wearily out the window. He had guessed that Saruman had a palantír, and been sure of it when he turned against them. Yet the news that Saruman had been corrupted by the use of it came as a surprise to him.

The Ithil-stone was more closely connected to the Arnor-stone than that of Isengard, so Denethor had probably felt the force of Sauron’s will more keenly than Saruman could. And while Sauron certainly was strong, Saruman was the leader of the Istari and a being of great strength, so surely his will was a match for Sauron’s. There was more to this riddle than Mithrandir had spoken of, or perhaps knew of. But whatever it was it did not really matter at the moment. Saruman was captured and out of the way, and his armies destroyed.

His eyes fixed on the map before him, and he absently traced his finger up the Harad road, mentally calculating where the Haradrim would now be.

His army was miniscule compared to Sauron’s.

Yet the defenses were strong. The crossing at Osgiliath was strongly held, the work on the Rammas Echor was finally completed, and the great wall could be defended for a long time with a relatively small force. And even should Sauron breach both defenses, the city could be held for an age. With the women and children now gone, the carefully packed granaries would last them six months at least, in case of a siege.

The city would stand, and somehow Sauron’s armies would be defeated. Denethor drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, mentally reviewing the route the dark armies would take when they finally moved, as he had done countless times a day in the recent weeks.

Many of Sauron’s forces would fall in bridging the Anduin, and more at the Rammas Echor. As they passed through the Pelennor they would be constantly assaulted by men hiding in the houses or orchards, sallying out unexpectedly or shooting at them from the bushes, then disappearing before the Orcs and Southrons had a chance to retaliate. Others would be killed in the siege of the city, and added to this was the difficulty of getting any sort of siege engine across the Pelennor, especially since the men of Gondor would set them alight whenever they got near to the walls. Denethor smiled grimly. If all went well, they had a chance of defeating the armies of Mordor.

Yet even should the battle be won, Mordor’s armies crushed and the White City saved, still the Dark Lord was in his unassailable tower, ready to raise another force against Gondor. With every passing year Sauron’s forces grew and Gondor’s weakened. His was endlessly patient – he was Maia, eternal, he could afford to wait. He would keep sending armies until he won, and there was nothing Denethor could do about it.

Even in the days of Elendil and the alliance, they were on the brink of defeat, and even in victory they could not defeat Sauron, only delay him for a time. And then Gondor was in her prime of strength and glory and allied with the elven armies of Gil-galad. What hope was there now for Gondor, weakened and alone as she was?

And even should the unhoped for come to pass and Sauron was defeated, what cost would it demand of Gondor?

What was the price of victory?

Finduilas had once asked him the same question. He could picture her face as she asked it, her voice soft and questioning and her dark eyes full of doubt and fear…

Denethor hurried through the halls, his heart light. The council had finished early, and his paperwork had already been taken care off, so he had a couple of hours free before dinner. It was not often these days that he had such a respite, for more and more often affairs came up which needed the steward’s personal attention, and he was often worked all day and half the night.

He halted outside the door to his wife’s rooms, and knocked softly. Often of late she had suffered from headaches and retired to her bed in the afternoons. He felt a little guilty for neglecting to free her up more - the life of the steward’s wife was not one of leisure, as the running of the large household rested almost entirely in her hands.

After a moment the door was opened by Finduilas’ personal servant, a woman from Dol Amroth named Eleniel. She had grown up with Finduilas and was her friend as much as servant. She dropped a quick curtsey at the sight of the steward. “My lord, the lady is not here, she has gone to rest in the gardens.”

Denethor nodded quickly. “How is she feeling?”

Eleniel’s eyes dropped and a frown passed across her forehead. “Her head has been aching a little this morning. She is-” The girl broke off, her eyes darting to the steady stream of servants and guards making their way through the halls. “Please, won’t you step inside a moment? I do think I should – I am concerned for her, my lord, I thought I should let you know...” Her voice trailed off.

Denethor had never before seen her at a loss for words, and his anxiety grew. He nodded silently, stepped in the doorway into the airy sitting room, and sank into a chair, his gaze fixed on the servant as she stood nervously before him. At last she awkwardly started to speak. “Forgive me for my boldness, but I am rather worried about the lady. She is unusually pale, and she hasn’t been eating as she ought to. She has also been very withdrawn and tired lately, and has not asked to see the children or been in company unless she can help it.”

Denethor nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I too have noticed this, but I thought it was simply her headaches.”

Eleniel shook her head decisively. “Forgive me, but I think there is more to it. I have been taking extra care of her, and in normal circumstances her headaches should have subsided by now. She seems unusually depressed, sir.”

Understanding dawned in Denethor’s eyes. “You suspect that she is with child again?”

The girl almost rolled her eyes, but caught herself in time, remembering who she was addressing, and merely shook her head. “No, she is not. She has been like this for several months already.”

“Oh.” Denethor said guiltily, cursing himself for not seeing her distress. He had been so busy, times were hard and the kingdom had to be actively held together. He had not had much time at all for his wife in the last while. He dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. “And she has given you no idea of the cause of this… ailment?”

“No, my lord. I have tried to find out, but she will not speak of it.”

“Thank you for informing me of this,” Denethor said at last, “I will speak to her of it.” He rose wearily and headed to the door, Eleniel hovering behind him. “She was in the eastern courtyard when I left her.” The girl told him, and he nodded his thanks and headed purposefully through the halls. It seemed that the relaxing afternoon he had hoped for was not to come about.

When he stepped into the bright garden he spotted Finduilas immediately. She sat on a low stone bench, her eyes closed, leaning against the wide trunk of a tree draped in white blossom. She looked so beautiful and peaceful that Denethor did not want to disturb her, and stood in the doorway watching her for a while. All around her the flowers bloomed in the bright sunshine, and a small breeze swept her loose dark hair from her face.

He resolved that she needed rest and turned at last to leave, pondering what else he should spend his afternoon on, but she sensed his movement and her eyes opened. “Forgive, me, I did not mean to waken you,” he said softly.

“I was not asleep,” she answered, sitting up, “only resting.”

“Then I will leave you to your rest,” he told her, turning again to go.

“Do not leave me,” she called after him, rising to her feet. “I would welcome your company, for my thoughts are dark. If you have time to spare for me, of course.”

He turned back into the garden and sat down on the shady bench beside her. “Forgive me, if my time was all my own I would spend every minute of it with you,” he told her, sensing the reproach behind her words. “There is so much to demand the steward’s attention, these days. But tell me, what is troubling you?”

“Please, may we not speak of something else? I do not wish to talk of sorrows on so fair a day.”

So Denethor buried his anxiety and launched into a tale of an amusing scene with his captains, remembering Eleniel’s words and hoping to cheer her. If she did not want to speak of whatever troubled her, he would not bring it up, at least, not now. Finduilas listened as he spoke, but did not respond, and when he was finished silence fell.

“Are you sure you do not wish to speak of it?” Denethor ventured at last.

“Yes,” she said forcefully.

Denethor lapsed back into silence, searching for something else to talk about.

“No!”

The steward winced at her tone, and turned to her in surprise. “What is it?”

“Denethor, I am afraid,” she said, turning her dark eyes to him imploringly.

Denethor blinked, a little taken aback, but wisely refrained from comment. “Of what?” he asked after a moment.

“Of this,” she stood and waved her arm toward the East and the Mountains of Shadow, “of the gathering darkness and the shadow that grows over Mordor. I fear for our future and that of our sons and of Gondor. I fear the ruin I see descending on our land.”

Denethor blinked again, surprised and a little alarmed, and groping desperately for something to say. “Indeed, you have no reason to fear,” he said carefully, “our men are strong, and the borders are secure.”

“Do not try to deceive me, Denethor, I too have heard the rumors of the armies gathering in the plains of Mordor, and seen the anxiety plain on the faces of your captains and yourself. The shadow has of yet made no move, yet still his forces are multiplying, while the small scouting parties he sends against us are severely weakening our troops. We are growing weaker by the year, and when he finally unleashes his might, how long will we withstand him? Even now he could send thousands of orcs pouring into Gondor, covering the plain like a dark flood and sweeping away all life.” She rose and paced agitatedly before him. “What hope is there for us? Minas Tirith will fall, Dol Amroth will be overrun with orcs and fell beasts, our people will all be killed, the whole of Gondor will be choked in shadow, and from thence the whole world. All that is good and beautiful, all light and courage will be crushed and the world will be dark. This is what I fear.”

Denethor had listened to her tirade in growing astonishment and trepidation, but at this he rose to his feet and gripped her shoulders, compelling her to meet his gaze. “No!” He said forcefully, fire burning in his eyes, “Finduilas, this will not be, there is hope still for our people! These walls have stood here for centuries although thousands gathered to assail them, and our men are strong and courageous. While there is a man in Gondor with breath left in his body we will hold this city, no matter what the shadow brings.”

Finduilas dropped her eyes from his, and after a moment lifted them to gaze into the east. “And when there is no longer any man here who draws breath?”

Denethor took her fine, cold hand in his battle hardened ones, and clasped it reassuringly. “I pray that it will never come to that. Yet even should the worst come to pass and all here should die, still there will be hope for our people! There are those of the Outlands who will escape into the hills or across the sea, and there grow in strength until they return and avenge us, and restore light to this land and rebuild our cities. The shadow will never, never hold sway over these lands. Our people are irrepressible.” He shot her a rueful smile, but she did not notice it; her face was still turned to the east.

Denethor watched her, and his face became grave. After an moment he started again to speak. “Do you remember when we were betrothed in Dol Amroth, and I spoke to you of the war that was gathering, and told you that the future might come to this? We stood on the sea shore and you told me that you would stay beside me whatever came, as while the stars shone there was hope for our people. They have not stopped shining, Finduilas, and not even the Dark Lord’s arm is long enough to pluck them out.”

She finally turned her eyes back to him, and the shadow of sorrow and fear in them pierced his heart. “I was a fool then,” she said softly, “I was young and happy, but I knew nothing of the depth of darkness assailing us.”

“Finduilas, this is not the end. The future seems dark, but we have a future, we have hope still!” His voice held a note of desperation. Always his wife had been the one to encourage him; now the depth of her despair frightened him deeply, and he knew not how to reassure her. “Whatever comes, we will survive this!”

She stood silent for so long that he was beginning to wonder if she had heard him. Then she lifted her head, and met his eyes squarely. “But at what cost?” she almost whispered.

And he had no reply.

March, 3019

Denethor’s fist clenched, and he stared unseeingly into the fire. Three weeks afterward his wife had fallen sick, later dying, and leaving him alone. She had caught a simple fever, yet it was her lack of will to live that took her life.

She had come to him so young and so innocent, yet he had been powerless to protect her from the shadow of Mordor, he had seen her despair and her fear grow, and he had done nothing. And so she had died.

If only he had never laid eyes on her, never loved her! She would have remained in Dol Amroth and lived, happy and free of the shadow that clouded her last days. The guilt of her death would weigh on him all his days.

And now his eldest son had joined her.

Denethor closed his eyes as a wave of silent grief and loneliness washed over him. The war had cost him everything; his wife, his heir, his youth and strength, all in life that had brought him joy and peace and happiness was now gone. His whole life had been spent for the city, in guarding and preparing her for this time.

And now the final stroke was to fall, and the last toll was to be paid.

Surely it could not have all been in vain?